


Profiling Etiquette

by sterios



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Prison, Angst and Humor, Breakout Kings - Freeform, Crime Fighting, Crimes & Criminals, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Happy Ending, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Inspired By A TV Show, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder Mystery, Prison, Psychiatrist Stiles Stilinski, Therapy, fbi!Scott, felon!Stiles, lawyer!derek, mostly anyway
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-02
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-03-20 19:38:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3662475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sterios/pseuds/sterios
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"While I am a felon, I am possibly the least dangerous felon in this room," Stiles observes, eyes darting about the place to emphasize his point.</em>
</p><p>  <em>"You're the only felon in this room," Derek deadpans from his newfound seat on the corner of Scott's desk.</em></p><p>  <em>Stiles grins something feral, "Precisely."</em></p><p>In which Stiles is eight years into a 25-to-life prison sentence when his estranged childhood friend and a grouchy lawyer offer him an opportunity he can't refuse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Stiles' character traits, while his own, are also based off of Dr. Lloyd Lowery from the TV show Breakout Kings, which is an interesting watch if you've never seen it. I essentially merged some traits from Breakout Kings with Criminal Minds to create this monster.
> 
> Not betaed, any mistakes are my own.
> 
> Enjoy.

 

* * *

"We do not suffer by accident."

                Jane Austen

* * *

 

The bars of the visitation cell loom over Stiles like an optical illusion, looking as if they might suddenly move and mash together like violent teeth. He's never been in this part of the prison before, he thinks, despite the unresolved feelings he has about the subject-of visitation, that is. He figured the room would have been bigger, more private, but that's probably because they only show the insides of the minimum security prisons on television. 

Still, Stiles tries to come off as calm and collected as he can manage, as he has no idea who requested visitation time with him. In the back of his mind, a sickeningly optimistic version of himself thinks it might be his dad, but Stiles knows better than that. Breathing out a caged sigh, Stiles sinks deeper into his seat, his handcuffs rattling uncomfortably together between his knees. The monstrosities they use here are nothing to scoff at: shackles at his wrists and ankles, tied together by chain-link and making it more than impossible to move faster than a brisk walk. His foot twitches, just to test its length, and hovers, suspending in motion, at the end of its leash.

It's enough to entertain himself with for several minutes before an electric buzz resounds overhead and two bodies are passed through the first set of doors, having to wait for them both to be closed before the next can retract into the walls. They don't look at Stiles through the bars, only at the other officers, and Stiles gets the worst feeling swimming in his stomach when he realizes that this is very much not a personal visit.

With one final shrill hum, the door to the caged room swings open and two men step into the room with him.

"Scott?"

Sure enough, the man sends him a friendly grin and a half-wave, stepping up to the only few pieces of furniture in the room: a steel table and two sets of metal chairs on the side opposing Stiles', all nailed permanently to the floor. The other man files in beside him, taking up the remaining chair. Stiles leans forward curiously, only to be strained by the chain holding him in his seat. He purses his lips unpleasantly at the reminder, but tries not to let it show on his face.

"What the hell are you doing here, man, I haven't seen you in like, ten years," Stiles says, surprised but not outwardly excited (he's learned that getting one's hopes up is almost never worth it). Scott, though, has the decency to look ashamed at being called out on his absence. He has no reason to be; Stiles never made any attempt to contact him, after all.

"Well, you heard that I followed after my dad, right?" Scott begins, sounding more cryptic than Stiles ever remembered. With that in mind, Stiles sits back in his seat tensely, arching a skeptical eyebrow.

"Yeah, you joined the feds, right?" Stiles remembers quietly, eyes flicking over his childhood friend, surveying him in silence.

"Don't do that," a gruff voice breathes.

Stiles blinks, caught off guard, but looks over, finally, at the man that came in with Scott. The first thing Stiles thinks is _rude_ , the second, _hot_. The man is devastatingly handsome and can get away with snapping at Stiles any day of the week with a face like that. Stiles blatantly stares at the man, unabashed, and feels that he can't be blamed (he's been in prison with a bunch of lowlifes for the past eight years, after all). Admiring his artfully sculpted stubble and diamond-cutting cheekbones, Stiles finally makes his way up to meet a truly ethereal gaze of blue and brown and green. The man's stare says it all, if Stiles hadn't already read his body language and gratifying aesthetic like a book.

"Why'd you bring me a sexy lawyer? You're not trying to get me out, Scotty, are you?" Stiles asks, grinning manically at the man in question and watching the lawyer twitch irritably at the comment, uncomfortable with the attention. The guy doesn't seem the least bit surprised to have been profiled so easily, and Stiles pouts quietly, sad that his party trick didn't ruffle any feathers after all. He gets over it rather quickly.

"Not exactly," Scott admits, looking more embarrassed than his friend, but Stiles supposes that it's all secondhand. He can remember clearly a bumbling Scott who'd try his best to clean up Stiles' messes. He only allows himself to reminisce for a few fleeting moments before he returns to the scene, mind racing back to the subject at the drop of a hat.

"Not exactly?" Stiles repeats curiously, reaching up to run a hand over his shorn head of hair, aborting the habit when the handcuffs don't give enough for him to reach. He catches the man's eyes tracking the chains with an intense gaze, and Stiles drops his hands into his lap in the face of scrutiny. It's easy to pretend that you control the situation when the other party forgets that you're actually a felon who's been rotting in jail for a few years, slowly going stir-crazy. He sighs quietly to himself, recognizing the fact that they've got the leg up on this one.

"This is Derek Hale, a lawyer from Martin & Hale, he's representing a client who just happens to be involved in my most recent case," Scott explains, piquing Stiles' interest. "A series of three murders with the same M.O. It's definitely a serial." 

"I'm sorry to hear that," Stiles answers honestly, sparing the both of them from a lengthy apology that he doesn't want to give and they don't want to hear. "But what has this got to do with me?" he asks, because while he does enjoy a good mystery story, he doesn't know why Scott finds it relative to him. He shifts tiredly in his seat, bringing his hands together to pick at the skin by his cuticles. It's a habit that he only develops when handcuffed, it seems.

"Our investigation is getting nowhere, so we've decided to resort to other options," Scott elaborates, gesturing a hand towards Stiles' chest. The owner of said chest quirks an eyebrow at that insinuation, head tilting in skepticism. "I have gotten permission to have you released into my custody for the time being, if you're willing to help us."

"I don't mean to sound selfish or anything, but what's in it for me?" Stiles asks after a short pause. 

"If we solve the case, we'll move you to a minimum security institution and talk to a judge about shortening your sentence," Scott answers decisively.

The air goes tensely quiet until Stiles snorts quietly, drawing Derek's attention.

"This is nothing to joke about, Mr. Stilinski. People are dying," he snaps coolly, coming off as passive aggressive as one could hope. Stiles rolls his eyes at the man's judgmental stare, tapping his foot incessantly against the tile flooring to get rid of some of his building energy.

"I understand that, _Mr. Hale_ , this is just some _White Collar_ bullshit that I wasn't expecting when I was eating salmonella-inducing scrambled eggs this morning," he snipes back, equally as calm, at least on the surface.

"You do realize that I obviously do not have a license to practice medicine anymore, and that my name has been drug through the mud in that social circle many, many times. I'm probably poison to your case," Stiles admits reluctantly, spiteful as ever about the consequences of his arrest but never outright objecting to them. 

"It's not like you don't deserve it," Derek hisses under breath, making Stiles go rigid with anger. 

"Okay, if I'm even going to _consider_ working with you, that needs to stop immediately," he sneers, leaning forward in his seat with a menacing glare. If he were a cartoon, smoke would be pluming out of his ears. He knows what he deserves, but he doesn't have to be happy about it.

"Derek," Scott scolds heatlessly, giving his acquaintance a look. Derek pauses, probably reigning in his temper.

"We're aware of your particular circumstances..." Derek grits through clenched teeth, making the situation look more and more like Scott had the initial idea. Probably not a far step from the truth. "You won't need to appear in court or practice anything while in McCall's custody, we just need you to help identify the killer." 

Stiles looks at Scott warily, looking for some sort of confirmation that this is true, and that he won't have to be subjected to anything to do with his own circumstances.

"We've exhausted all other options, and we know the risks," Derek interrupts rudely, drawing Stiles' hatred.

"We just need Stiles Stilinski, the person, not the psychiatrist," Scott pleads, giving him heartbreakingly convincing eyes. Stiles keeps eye contact with his friend for several too-long seconds before he sighs and sits back again, having to lower his head considerably to scratch the skin just above his eyebrow.

"Alright, fine. This might be the last time I ever get to be outside anyway," he relents, playing off as disinterested when inside he's trying to tamp down the excitement that stirs butterflies in his stomach at being able to see the sky properly again.

Scott looks relieved and excited, despite Stiles' seemingly reluctant reaction. Derek on the other hand, is leveling Stiles with a heated glare.

"Yeah, I can tell we're going to get along really well, buddy," Stiles drawls, sickly sweet, giving the man a sardonic quirk of the lips and reveling in the first flustered response he's gotten out of the man since he came in. It's not quite a blush, but Derek's ears do go pink momentarily.

Scott waves at the officer, who brings the key to Stiles' handcuffs and a stack of contract papers. 

Stiles puts a borrowed pen to the dotted line, thinking bleakly that the last time he signed something, it was an admission of guilt.

It all feels very redundant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what did stiles do to get in jail?  
> what good is he to the fbi?  
> hopefully these will be answered in the next chapter


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An early morning Easter present from me to you.

"For whatever reason, I was expecting something much flashier. Like a swanky penthouse suite or a federal building with glass walls, you know," Stiles muses aloud as the elevator dings off-key above his head. The door is a manual one, which Scott has to pull open with what looks like much effort. The building's interior is just as unimpressive as its outside. 

Poorly-aged brick lines the walls, painted baby blue until about shoulder-height before it morphs into an off-white, giving the room a sort of prison-y feel that has Stiles' senses going haywire. The air is chilled and stale, smelling of mildew, which is undoubtedly starting to grow in the room's corners. A few desks are littered haphazardly about the open floor, cheap wood and looking worn, and the lights overhead hang down too far and keep flickering every other second. The only salvageable attributes in the entire place are four round-topped window frames that give the only indication that they're still in New York.  

A closet off towards the back could possibly double as an interrogation room, but otherwise the place looks nothing like a federal building.

"Convicted felons aren't allowed in any high profile federal establishments. Scott borrowed this from a neighbor who got busted for dealing, didn't you Scott?" Derek drawls, looking more and more smug by the minute. Scott, bless his soul, doesn't answer.

After Derek had gotten over his bout of insolent disgust with Stiles, he apparently decided to instead poke fun at the knowledge that Stiles was, yes, a convicted felon and that he isn't allowed out of Scott's, or apparently Derek's, sight. The poking-fun part is a defense technique that Stiles is well-versed at, and he'd decided to keep the psychiatric comment to himself on the drive over, but now his moral code isn't fully functioning.

Stiles decides that the high road isn't too high and takes it, scoffing at the back of Derek's perfect head when he's not looking instead. 

Scott meanders over to one of the desks, presumably his own, and pulls out a case file and a few loose sheets of paper before handing them off to Stiles.

Stiles, in turn, stares blankly at the proffered items, meeting Scott's eyes and not-so-subtly raising his still handcuffed wrists. The metal clinks loudly against itself, and apparently disturbs a few people who step out from behind a frankly random door in the wall. 

Lydia Martin is the first person he sees, and his face immediately lights up. 

"My love," he greets, full of shit and grinning at her artfully-constructed look of disgust. It doesn't last long though and she smirks attractively back at him. When Scott finally manages to unlock his shackles, he wraps the shorter woman in a friendly hug, reciprocated.

It provokes a series of different reactions from the people scattered about the room.

Most notably: a "You know Lydia?" from Scott, a "Is he allowed to do that?" from Derek, and a glock aimed between his eyes from a particularly busty blonde woman.

The room goes abruptly tense when the firearm is drawn, Stiles freezing in place in fear of the contents of his head painting the depressing brick wall behind him. He should really be more concerned about getting brain matter on Lydia though, because that's more terrifying than death.

"Drop it, Erica, he's a friend," Lydia snaps from where she has her chin hooked over Stiles' shoulder. The woman, Erica, does as she says, expression full of hesitation. The room relaxes considerably. 

"Special Agents Erica Reyes," Scott says from his seat, slowly relaxing himself.

"Hello, Erica," Stiles greets pleasantly, unwrapping himself from Lydia once she deems it's been long enough. He studies the room out of habit, locking away the unadulterated discomfort on Derek's face for a later date. "Lydia represented me, pro bono," he explains briefly, in response to Scott's question.

Derek snorts incredulously.

"You didn't tell me you were the one who practically gave Stilinski a first-class ticket to prison," he says, judgemental. Stiles can see that the pair are familiar enough with each other to not take offense, from Lydia's unimpressed stare. "What kind of lawyer lets their client incriminate themselves before seeing a courtroom?"

Lydia sighs, glancing at Stiles tiredly, as if he's a puzzle she's given up trying to solve. She taps her heel against the flooring thrice before pursing her lips and facing Derek again. "It was Stiles' decision, I couldn't talk him out of it," she concedes, looking sick from the indication behind the words. That she didn't get something she wanted. "Stubborn bastard," she acquiesces under breath, making Stiles grin and give her a wink.

"So you just took 25 to life because, what, you didn't want to spend the money for court fees?" Derek asks, voice hinted in disbelief. Stiles doesn't correct him, but doesn't deter his statement either. He shrugs noncommittally, averting his eyes to glance out the window. 

Erica looks uncomfortable with this knowledge.

"While I am a felon, I am possibly the least dangerous felon in this room," he observes, reassuring her silent unease, eyes darting about the place to emphasize his point.

"You're the only felon in this room," Derek deadpans from his newfound seat on the corner of Scott's desk.

Stiles grins something feral, "Precisely."

"What did you do?" a small voice asks, drawing attention. It belongs to a tall man, thin and yet appearing well-put together. Stiles can admire the man's styled hair and perfectly straight teeth, framed by a crooked smile. However, Stiles isn't one to go after the slightly-insecure type, considering he fills the role spectacularly himself. 

"And you are?" Stiles asks politely, avoiding the question with his usual finesse, stepping towards the man pointedly, just to watch him twitch backwards a half-step in response. His first impression is overcompensating through physical appearance and a social anxiety disorder, well-hidden but easily detectable to the right pair of eyes. The man's hands have a slight tremor to them, a minor side effect.

"Isaac Lahey, he's our tech wizard," Scott introduces proudly, coming around to clap his friend on the shoulder. Stiles narrows his eyes, watching Isaac flinch minutely at the friendly gesture, and then casually lean into it. 

"Don't," Derek warns, and Stiles levels him with a curious look, impressed by Derek's attention to detail. He should've been a cop, Stiles thinks belatedly, because he can apparently read Stiles like a book.

Of course, Stiles doesn't listen.

"Isaac, can I call you Isaac?" Stiles prods, watching the timid man nod slowly. "You haven't finished your training, why?" Stiles asks quizzically, raising an eyebrow as the man balks at that, emotions flickering across his eyes like a moving picture. Surprise, embarrassment, regret.

"How did you-?"

"You hold yourself like a cop should, but you look at everybody else in this room like a superior. So either you're in training currently or you've stopped, which I'm leaning further towards, based on your charming social anxiety and AvPD," he rattles off, waving a slight hand.

"AvPD?" Derek asks from across the room, standing up defensively. Stiles swings his head around to meet his gaze.

"Avoidant Personality Disorder," he says, as a matter of fact, before turning back to the subject in question, who is beginning to sweat. Stiles has a brief moment of regret, hitting himself silently for forgetting to change his filter from prison life to real life. Isaac literally looks terrorized. "Don't worry, it's not that obvious!" he reassures him, giving a weak smile, one filled with apologies.

The look doesn't seem to transfer, but Isaac sits down abruptly at, presumably, his own desk, blushing furiously.

"Too far," Derek snips from his corner of the room, nostrils flared and lip curled into a sneer, "Sit down and get to work. We're not keeping you out any longer than necessary."

Stiles sighs minutely, but concedes to the man and takes a seat next to Scott's discarded file folder, picking it up reluctantly. He's feeling a little guilty about putting Isaac on the spot, but it was the easiest, and fastest, way to deflect his question. Stiles isn't feeling particularly forthcoming about the whole prison story-telling, since he just managed to get out no more than a few hours ago. 

It's not like they can't just look up his case, though, but he hopes he's not around long enough for them to go digging in the "S's". Scott probably knows, but Derek looks just confused enough to indicate that he knows the sentence, but not the reasoning behind it.

Within a minute of reading the same first sentence over three times, Stiles closes the file and sets it down loudly on the desk again, drawing a few eyes.

"So, am I going to have to wear these prison blues this entire time? 

Half the room groans, but Scott smiles at him and shakes his head. "Isaac brought in some clothes for you to wear while you're here, where'd you put them Isaac?"

The man in question blinks up at his boss slowly, "In my car." He looks like a deer in headlights, and Stiles tracks the tremor of his hands. 

"I'll get them, just toss me your keys," Stiles relents, standing and feeling apologetic for putting the guy on the spot earlier. He can see Isaac's posture relax minutely, and Stiles thinks that his disorder might be more geared toward agoraphobia than just strictly social anxiety.

Derek is the first to object, "You're not allowed anywhere without an escort, you know that."

"Fine, then pat me down and let's get walking," Stiles digs, purposely getting into the man's space and holding his arms level with his shoulders. Derek swallows visibly at Stiles' heated eyes, hooded with purpose while he looks up at the lawyer through his lashes. Interesting, Stiles thinks, tongue darting out to wet his upper lip. Sure enough, Derek's eyes trace the movement.

When he feels hands finally run down his body, he's disappointed to turn around and see Erica patting him down from behind. Stiles huffs a put-upon sigh, stepping back once the woman is done with her search. He obviously has no weapons, but he thinks that maybe those who don't know him, or in Derek's case, his file, might think that he has a prison sentence of 25 years to life for some violent behavior.

That's not the case, but the idea is curious to ponder. If they want to be extra cautious around him, he's not going to settle their unease.

"Let's go, lover boy," Erica says, swinging Isaac's keys around an index finger before grabbing a hand to his bicep and pulling him bodily towards the door. 

"I'll come with," Lydia adds suddenly, that look hovering in her eyes. Stiles sighs, but doesn't protest as the elevator loads him with the pair of women and Erica pulls the door shut.

 Once on the ground floor, Erica leads the way to Isaac's car, Stiles following reluctantly with Lydia by his side. Her nails dig just this side of painful into his forearm.

"This is not a good idea, Stiles," she comments quietly, keeping her eyes forward as Erica unlocks the sedan and bends over to pick out a bag from the front seat.

"You're not my attorney anymore, Lydia," Stiles snaps heatlessly, crossing his arms across his chest defensively.

Lydia glares hard enough to make him turn his head, "I'm not saying this as your attorney, I'm saying this as your friend."

Stiles, in response, huffs a sigh."Those are not mutually exclusive," he says. "I need this, Lyds, I can't stay in prison for the rest of my life." At her petulant glare, he turns to pleading, "This is my only way to get time shaved off my sentence, maybe even get my life back!" Lydia isn't having it though, if the way she purses her lips are any indication. And it is.

"Stiles, the life you had before is over, you need to understand that," she says, not too softly either. "They didn't just drag your name through the mud, they completely erased it. You're never going to practice again, it's not a possibility." 

Of course, Stiles knows this in the back of his mind. However, hearing it said aloud is more like a sharp stab than the aching pain he's been experiencing ever since the beginning of the whole ordeal. He breathes a calming breath, embarrassed when it comes out shaky and weak. Watching Erica pull out various articles of clothing from the front seat distracts him from the wetness threatening to pool in the crevices of his eyes. 

"I know that," he protests quietly, keeping his eyes away from his friend. He doesn't want to see the pity in her eyes.

So he watches the strangers pass by on the sidewalk, reading the disgust and the fear in their eyes instead. Despite being covered in two layers of a muted blue jumpsuit, he feels naked to their prying stares. Even so, he thinks, he'd rather see someone's disgust in him than a friend's pity. 

That doesn't mean it doesn't hurt.

"This isn't going to end well, Stiles. You're going to get to be Stiles Stilinski, acclaimed psychiatrist and tenured professor, for a week at the most," says Lydia, her grip on his arm softening to a gentler caress. Her voice is patronizing and motherly soft, but Stiles can't even feel ashamed in her presence. "Then they're going to drop you again and you'll keep getting this taste of your professional life, but that's all it will ever be."

Erica starts walking back towards them, clothes in hand, with a skeptical expression.

"It's all I have, Lyds, I have to take it," Stiles whispers back, wondering if he even believes himself when her expression reads skeptical.

Ten minutes later Stiles walks out of the interrogation room/coat closet wearing clothes that are definitely not his measurements, but they're close enough that he doesn't look like he's swimming in them. Isaac is a good few inches taller than him, so he's rolling the end of the jeans into cuffs at his ankles that remind him minutely of his actual shackles.

It occurs to him that prison and this situation really aren't so different. 

"At least I don't look like a criminal now, more of a junkie vibe, you feel?" He says, trying to lighten his quickly dampened mood. Stiles centers himself quietly, taking deep breaths and clearing his head of any distractions, most prominently the pull of the fresh air drafting in from an open window. He doesn't so much walk towards the windowsill as turn to face it, imagining the breath of cool air on his face and wondering if it actually feels lighter than the fresh air in the prison yard. He shifts his weight momentarily, pondering how hard it would be to convince Scott or Lydia to let him go outside and lay out in the grass for a few minutes.

He muses over the thought of escaping, but he's not an idiot and he doesn't think for a moment that he'd know what to do with himself once he did so.

Stiles is imagining the smell of fresh-cut grass and freedom when Derek's crafted, judgemental monotone interrupts his thoughts. "You'll always look like a criminal, because you _are_ one." 

It takes all of Stiles' self restraint to not comment on Derek's obvious bully complex, or what Stiles suspects is a bout of depression. He has some semblance of control, after all.

"What are you even still doing here, Derek? I don't see a client anywhere." He takes a seat in front of the apparent murder board that Scott has set up at the head of the room. It has photos and red string and everything.

"Derek's client is the family of the first victim and they've asked him to keep tabs on our investigation," Scott explains, for all his optimism actually looking spiteful, "Our director insisted we cooperate." Stiles grins at Derek manically, watching the man shift defensively in his own seat behind him.

"And here I was thinking you just liked me," he spouts, grin shit-eating, as he leans back in his seat. For the first time in a long time, no handcuffs restrict his movement. 

It's liberating.

Derek, in turn, levels him with a sneer before going back to what Stiles assumes is lawyer-stuff.

"Anyway, back to the actual case," Erica strides in, coffee cup in hand, and stops next to the board with one hand on her cocked hip. "There have been three victims so far," she points to the photo with each corresponding name, "First victim was Danny Mahealani, 20 year old student studying mass communications at NYU. Extensive damage to the face and torso with a blunt object, stabbed 24 times before he bled out in a field on the University's campus last Saturday evening."

"That reminds me," Stiles remembers suddenly, "What day is it?"

"Thursday," Isaac pipes from his own desk, head down-turned and buried in his computer. Stiles gives him a warm smile before turning to address the room in its entirety. Lydia hovers quietly in a corner, arms folded across her chest petulantly, probably waiting for him to say something self-incriminating or offensive and have to be shipped back to the max shack. Derek looks as if he couldn't care less, only looking up tiredly when Stiles taps a foot to get his attention. Erica is studying the board determinedly and Scott is the only one listening with apt attention.

"Three bodies in five days is quite an escalation from no bodies at all, so I'm hoping we've all assumed that Danny here had to have triggered the killer somehow," Stiles comments, gesturing to the young man's smiling face. He's trying to ignore the fact that the guy's corpse is probably locked away in the basement of a federal building.

Scott nods his assent while Erica comments further, "The next two victims were both female, Malia Tate, 25, and Paige Simms,17, so we've ruled out motive as being anything race, age, or gender related. Also, Tate was a telemarketer and Simms a high school student." Two portraits of the aforementioned women stare back at him, both lovely children with innocent smiles. There's not much to get out of a picture, though. "Extensive mutilation to both girls' genitals," she adds as an afterthought, voice lowering considerably in quiet remorse for the women.

"What makes you think these three were all killed by the same individual?" Stiles asks, plainly curious.  The victims were nothing alike, ruling out any obvious pattern. There would be no reason for any of them to have come into contact with one another.

 "They were all found with a watch that had been tampered with to read 6:22," Scott recites, handing Stiles a printed picture of said watch. "In Simms's case, she was found with a watch that wasn't hers. No trace evidence."

Stiles wracks his brain for anything of significance involving the time 6:22 or any numeric variation, but comes up short. It was a long shot anyway. 

"Well, I'd suggest starting with the first murder and working your way through the timeline."

Erica rolls her eyes, "Thanks for the suggestion, but we've already planned to pay Danny's roommate a visit." She pulls out a sheet of carefully folded paper, "Got a warrant and everything, just in case he decides to try and pull rank on us."

"Excellent, then I'll wait here with Isaac and Lydia while you cops case the joint," Stiles announces, reclining in his seat and crossing his legs with a shit-eating grin. Isaac looks vaguely appalled at that suggestion, but doesn't otherwise protest. 

Derek, apparently revived from the dead, shakes his head and closes up his files, saying "You're coming with, Stilinski. You can sit in on the roommate's interview."

"And how far is this drive?"

"Probably around two and a half hours," Scott admits, looking dreadfully chipper. All Stiles can think of is sitting in the car for two and a half hours with his childhood best friend, a triggerhappy fed, and a ridiculously handsome yet unbelievably catty lawyer with some serious behavioral problems.

"Brilliant."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: not dissing therapists in this chapter, Stiles is just an asshole. Also, this is were the storyline becomes much of a Criminal Minds episode. I've seen all ten seasons so far so really I can't tell you what is made up and what is my subconscious memory.

The drive to New York University's campus proves to be just as harrowing as Stiles' initial expectations.

It all starts out with an innocent question from Erica, approximately an hour into a two and a half hour road trip, characterized (at that point) by utter silence and mild whining from when Scott refused to roll the windows down more than an inch.

"Hey Stilinski," Erica says, over-the-shoulder from her shotgun seat. Scott chances a glance into the middle seat of his SUV from the rearview mirror every now and then, mostly when there's a bout of traffic or a red light. Derek is Stiles' seatmate, though the lawyer might as well be in the adjacent car with how much space he's put between himself and Stiles, who would be insulted if he actually thought the man was doing it on purpose.

Stiles, greedily staring out the window and cataloging every image of freedom to use for future reference, knocks his forehead against the glass once in passive aggressive objection. "You know, you can just call me Stiles. I really don't mind," he intones, frustrated with the prison-treatment he's receiving while he's _not in prison._  

"Stilinski," she repeats pointedly, turning around in her seat and meeting his gaze, "So, what do you even do? Before you were arrested, you know," she continues, and Stiles tries to find any hint of bad intentions in her curiosity, finding none. He can entertain the question well enough.

"I was a psychiatrist," Stiles says slowly, nose scrunched up in apparent abjection, "I thought you knew this. It's all in my file."

"We skimmed it," Erica admits shamelessly, hooking her chin over the side of her seat while Stiles somehow resists making a lazy cop joke. "What do you actually _do_ though? Just sit around listening to people talk about their problems?"

Stiles snorts in offense as well as absurdity, "I'm not a therapist, I have a PhD."

"That means nothing to me," Erica rolls her eyes in deadpan. With a sigh in frustration, Stiles rubs his eyes tiredly, feigning true upset.

"You're equating me with a mental health counselor, which I am decidedly not," he comments, mostly to himself. "I went to medical school and had to complete a three-year residency while some therapists can get licensed by the state with a Master's in Psychology or Social Work." 

Erica's face reads blank, obviously not the answer she was looking for.

"I'm a medical doctor that can prescribe drugs or perform studies on human behavior and listen to people's problems to figure out what's wrong with them."

"So you're like a profiler? Like on Criminal Minds?"

Stiles sighs, "Aside from the fact that I never worked for the government, sure." It's not an accurate comparison by any means, He's just not sure there's much else to explain without the subject getting hazy for her, since it's already proved to be a challenge in itself to explain the basic definition of his profession. He's certainly not going to share more than necessary.

"Didn't you work in a psychiatric ward?" Scott asks, looking back at him through the rearview mirror, eyes wide and hopeful. Stiles literally can't tell him no.

"For a few years," he admits, reminiscing. He can remember perfectly each and every patient he'd seen while working in the ward, seeing images of the more prominent cases in his mind's eye. However, he more aptly remembers the nightmares he received from the many off-putting experiences. It was undoubtably the reason he left in the first place, no matter how stimulating the job had proved it be. It was too much.

A car horn from a few rows over startles him back into the present. 

"I preferred working in my private practice though," he concedes, propping his elbow against the edge of the window and resting his chin in his palm. At this height, he can feel the faint breeze against his scalp from the measly inch Scott had rolled the window down. Stiles sighs against the feeling, once of the minor things he's missed since being incarcerated. 

He doesn't get to enjoy the breeze for very long though when Erica prods at his leg with a blunt fingernail, drawing his attention.

"You can read people pretty well then?" She says rhetorically, "Do me." 

Stiles watches her as she folds her arms over the back of her chair, resting her chin on the skin of her wrist. Her eyes shine with bright curiosity and expectation.

"I'm not a psychic, I really only observe someone for a period of time to determine what's, quote-unquote, _wrong_ with a person," he says with a vague eyeroll, making physical quotation marks with his index and middle fingers around the stressed word. "And people don't generally appreciate hearing their biggest insecurities validated by a professional," he warns pointedly.

Erica doesn't give in though, "Okay," she drawls slowly, condescending, "Well, you're not a licensed professional anymore, so this is just cop to robber." _Ouch_ , Stiles thinks, sneering at her reference. "What's _wrong_ with me?" She imitates his finger quotes with a sense of ridicule. 

"Not everyone has something _wrong_ with them."

"But everyone in this car does, right?"

Stiles scowls, eyes darting about the car aimlessly. The request has drawn Derek out of his file-reading stupor and has him leaning slightly forward in unconscious anticipation. Scott watches with apt attention from his driver's seat. 

Stiles nods reluctantly his assent.

"I haven't studied you long enough to make a genuine diagnosis," he admits, shrugging nonchalantly, "Ask me again when we're done with this case. I'll do everyone, if you want," he offers, not willing to compromise his professional integrity with guesswork.

 Erica rolls her eyes, as if she can't believe Stiles is an actual professional, and rights herself in her seat to face forward again. She tunes out the backseat by raising the volume of the radio and chatting quietly with Scott.

Stiles suddenly feels like the child being drowned out by their parents' music, glancing over at Derek who seems to be experiencing a similar feeling. The man meets Stiles' gaze with a frown, but Stiles can recognize the beginnings of a question building up in his body language. It only takes a few more moments of shared eye contact for the lawyer to come up with it.

"Have you ever profiled yourself?" Derek asks quietly, body turning to face Stiles across from him.

Stiles shrugs, a little lost in the man's ethereal eyes, "Sure," he admits after coming to, eyes running across Derek's face appreciatively as Stiles tries to read the man. He's certainly not as open as Erica, or half as willing, but he's not a complete mystery. Stiles can see the man's obvious wisdom in his hard eyes and can recognize a mistrusting personality when he's subjected to one. Derek is holding back a lot, and Stiles decidedly thinks that he's going to figure the man out before he goes back to prison.

"And?" Derek continues, prompting Stiles lightly. If the man were anything but serious, Stiles would be able to tell. As it is, Derek doesn't appear to be asking for any self-gratification or as an act of bullying. Stiles is compelled to open up to him, hoping to eventually get the same in return. He could be patient, after all.

 "Mild Narcissistic Personality Disorder, subtype Manipulative Narcissist. Characterized by a grandiose display of self-importance, expectancy of deference from others, a lack of empathy. Probably rooted in defense during childhood against a cold and unsympathetic parent," Stiles rattles off blankly, purposely avoiding the use of pronouns. "Less mild Panic Disorder, brought on by severe stress from a past childhood event. Adult-onset Nyctophobia and a few minor compulsive behaviors here and there..." After a second of silent eye contact, Stiles shrugs and looks away, watching the world fly by. "It's textbook, really."

 Derek's expression is carefully blank, Stiles notes from his peripherals, as if the man is trying to comprehend everything said while not seeming too interested or too indifferent. It takes a while for him to finally respond, but when he does it's certainly not was Stiles was expecting (i.e. a derogatory or affirmative comment).

"You don't seem grandiose," is what he says, sounding completely out of his depth. It's enough to prompt a bark of a laugh from Stiles, surprising Derek completely.

"That's what you got out of all that?" Stiles says, still fighting off a few stray laughs, smiling genuinely at his seatmate. He huffs a carefree breath, leaning his crown back loosely against the headrest and letting his eyes go hooded in content. "Well, thanks for the vote of confidence. I assure you, though, I am fairly gaudy."

Stiles watches Derek's expression carefully as the man's eyes, pupils blown wide, track the elongation of Stiles' neck, not so subtly, before he smiles small at Stiles' comment. It's nothing major, but it is an opening, Stiles thinks.

"Don't," Derek warns, breaking Stiles out of his studious stupor. He blinks several times, wondering how the man continues to recognize Stiles' inclination to study the people around him just as he's doing so. It's somewhat unnerving.

"Don't what?" Stiles plays coy, quirking an eyebrow.

"Don't study me," Derek orders bluntly, reassessing his posture by turning his body forward and away from Stiles, "I'm not one of your patients."

Derek has him there, "Fair enough," Stiles claims, avoiding the pretense of an apology.

The rest of the ride is painfully uneventful.

Stiles continues to stare out at the institutions of human life. People walking their dogs, children playing on a swingset, teenagers jaywalking through traffic. He also studies the various buildings as they fly by them. A packed gym, a Methodist church, a children's hospital, several McDonald's, a flashy casino, a small, deficient bank. Stiles pretends that he doesn't see Scott watching him closely in the mirror, instead resting his eyes closed until he can open them and not see the disappointment and frank distrust that reside in his childhood friend's suspicious gaze.

It takes the remainder of the trip for this to happen though, because apparently Scott doesn't need to watch the road to drive, he'd rather keep an eye on Stiles in case he tries to bolt through the single inch the window is cracked open. It's very annoying that he doesn't trust him, but completely justified, Stiles supposes. Just because he can be rational doesn't mean he's not irritated by it though.

They arrive on campus finally, pulling up to Danny Mahealani's dorm building and parking on the curb. Stiles thinks belatedly that if a regular Joe decided to park there he'd be ticketed, but because they're the cops they get away with anything. It's during this internal tangent that he pulls the door handle and pushes, only to find that the door won't budge.

When he looks up at Scott to unlock it, the man is fixing him with a rather serious look. Erica and Derek don't seem completely in on it, but watch the scene warily unfold.

"I sent your photo to every joint in a five-mile radius. If you run, you won't get far," Scott explains, slowly as if Stiles wasn't smart enough to understand. It's vaguely offensive, that notion.

"Scott, do you honestly think-"

"Can it, Stilinski. Just get out and let's go," Erica snaps tiredly, unlocking the car doors and clamoring out elegantly herself. Scott gets out immediately after, leaving Stiles in the car with Derek.

"Geez, what did you do to make McCall so serious?" Derek asks amusedly. 

"Why, so you can make a thinly-veiled insults towards me when I'm trying to work? Fuck off, Hale," Stiles sneers, throwing open the door and closing it just as rapidly on Derek's marginally shamed face (at least he had the decency).

 

Scott knocks twice in succession on Jackson Whittemore's door, his companions pooling around him in a semi-circle. Stiles leans backwards on his heels and peers his way down the hallway around Erica's thin frame, surveying the scene quietly. He can feel the ghosts of Derek's gaze on his back, but he doesn't bother to look at the man (he's still bitter from their car ride discussion).

The hallway is eerily quiet for a Thursday evening, though Stiles supposes he doesn't know much about the average college student's schedules these days. He thinks back to his own experiences with a shudder, wondering how he even managed to make it out alive.

Meanwhile, the door swings open with a sharp "What?" and a dangerously defensive scowl that could rival even Derek Hale. His looks, though charming and obviously flattering, however, do not. The Derek Hale ascetic is unrivaled thus far.

"Jackson Whittemore?" Erica asks, reading from her pocket notebook and looking up at the boy as he acknowledges his name. "I'm Special Agent Reyes and we're from the Homicide Dept. Can we ask you a few questions regarding your roommate?"

Jackson turns up his nose at that, gaze heavy with emotion as the boy puts on a defiant face against the authority. His eyes are puffy and red, though he does not seem to be embarrassed by the implication. Instead, he sets his sights on the mass of them outside his dorm, setting each of them with a sneer before he comes to Stiles. "Don't tell me he's a fed," he says, rhetoric. 

Erica glances over at Stiles tiredly before stepping in front of Jackson's line of sight and into the room, forcing the college student to take a step backwards over his threshold. "He's a special deputy," she decides eventually, fixing Jackson with the printed warrant when he moves to object. The boy just sighs though, takes the paper delicately in his hands and sits on the end of his bed, head hung. 

Stiles, on the other hand, preens under the title, slipping into the small dorm and surveying the left side of the room instantly. The stripped bed is piled high with packed boxes of Danny Mahealani's belongings, organized neatly into short columns and rows. He sidles past a bulletin board on Jackson's side of the room, running his fingers along the cork aimlessly before retreating his hands to his pockets.

The walls on the other side of the room are bare, but small indents in the drywall tell of pictures or posters abruptly taken down. 

"What was hung up here?" Stiles asks, fingers tracing the empty places on the wall. Jackson looks up from his papers, frowning pensively before standing and approaching one of the stacked boxes on Danny's side of the room. 

"Danny was an artist," Jackson explains, tripping over the past tense, "He had a rough childhood, but painting was one of the ways he liked to cope. That's what he told me, anyway," he dismisses, pulling a few used canvases out of their places and handing them to Stiles reluctantly, timidly. Stiles, in turn, gives the college student a short nod of acknowledgement before sitting himself down on the corner of the bed and surveying the paintings quietly. 

Jackson looks a little sick at Stiles' blatant disregard for respect of his friend's things, but doesn't comment on such.

The paintings themselves are beautiful and elaborate, if a little juvenile, and the three that Stiles shifts in his grip all share the common subject of the human form. They aren't particularly sexual or even anatomically correct and their dimensions are purposely skewed, giving off an abstract demeanor. It's the emotion in the drawn bodies' language that has him pausing, considerate. 

"How long were you and Mr. Mahealani roommates?" Scott asks in the back of Stiles' awareness.

Jackson answers a brief "Three years", but offers no more.

The interview continues as background noise.

Stiles, instead, focuses on the models' facial expressions in the young man's paintings, drawn in by the raw emotion. On one canvas, a painted male with concave posture, hunched into a crouch with his hands, anatomically too large, and strewn across his own body in defensive, rather than sensuality. The man's eyes are overcast and glassy, gazing blankly back at the beholder. In another painting, a woman with exaggerated lips and solid eyebrows stares straight on with a bold gaze. She's sitting with her legs crossed in front of her. What strikes Stiles immediately is the position of her hands, one arranged on her face as if in a caress, the other gripped taunt on its opposing wrist. As if she's arranging herself into position.

Shuffling the pieces, Stiles' breath catches at the last painting, eyebrows pinching together thoughtfully. The subject is male, zoomed in close to his fair face. One hand rests loosely tight in his hair while the other is position on the left hand of his face, fingers gripped into the skin of his cheek and pulling outward at an unnatural angle that has the loose flesh stretching directly off of his face. What strikes Stiles as an odd afterthought is that the hand in the man's hair is not his own, but a woman's.

Stiles tunes back into the conversation whilst Derek is instructing the boy on his constitutional rights to an attorney, much to the upset of the two cops in the room.

He interrupts Derek mid-sentence, uncaring. "Are these recent?" Stiles asks, drawing the attention of the room. Derek looks to be fuming in his shoes.

Jackson frowns, but nods his assent. "Maybe a few months?"

"Fantastic," Erica snaps pointedly, fixing Stiles with a sharp glare. "Now, Mr. Whittemore, you told police that you went to the game the night Danny disappeared? What happened after that?"

"Um," Jackson hums thoughtfully, "I went out, hit a couple of frat parties."

Stiles snorts quietly to himself, but otherwise says nothing. He's more or less being ignored.

"Which ones?" Scott asks kindly, pen paused motionless over his pad of paper.

"I don't remember, I was very drunk," Jackson drawls, put-upon. Erica hums in acknowledgement at that, posing no further questions, and Stiles takes the time to jump in.

"This must be hard," he comments loudly, meeting only Derek's eyes as they move to meet his. Sometime between the time they entered and now the lawyer had put on a pair of reading glasses, which take precedence over any comment he was about to make. Derek looks skeptical at the attention, retreating back just a half-step while his eyebrows pinch together. Stiles can't help but think it's devastatingly adorable.

"Stiles?" Scott prompts, waving a hand to get his attention. "What must be hard?"

"Right." Stiles shakes his head, as if to reshuffle his thoughts, "It must be hard, having to pack up all Danny's things by yourself. Didn't his family want to help?" 

 Jackson stiffens minutely, enough for Stiles and the pair of cops to notice. Derek, while probably a great lawyer, is apparently not very attentive to details that don't involve getting a read on Stiles. His job doesn't involve the reading of the common person.

"Danny and I had been living together for a while. I told them that I'd sort through what was his and what was mine," Jackson admits stiltedly, growing uncomfortable. A brief silence carries the room, Derek finally looking back up and scowling in confusion at the tense room.

Erica and Scott seem to have caught on, so Stiles just smiles contentedly and goes back to his paintings and his ignoring Derek's prying stares.

"I had a good friend at the Academy who I roomed with," Erica explains slowly, eyes sharp and calculating, "And she used to make me promise that if anything happened to her, I'd get rid of anything her parents shouldn't see."

"What didn't Danny want his parents to see?" Scott asks kindly.

Jackson's refusal to meet their eyes is enough indication, Stiles thinks, but it's clear that they're still fishing for information. Information in which Stiles has had since the moment he stepped into the room. 

Derek is the only one paying him attention, something of the norm lately, and he watches, perplexedly, as Stiles gets to his feet and pulls a crisp photo out of his pocket with a grin and a wink. The lawyer looks appalled.

"Was it this?" Stiles asks, handing the student his own picture and watching his face flicker through a mirage of emotions before his mouth is set in a straight line. Jackson stares down at the photo in his stiff hands. A younger-looking Jackson sits on a park bench beside his former roommate, who is smiling something fierce and holding the hand of another boy, unnamed. "You're going to want to put that with his other things," Stiles says softly.

"Please, you can't tell them," Jackson says after a moment of silence. He looks directly to Stiles, who is confused by the attention. 

"I'm not telling anyone anything," Stiles says, backing off with an aborted gesture towards Derek. "Mr. Hale here is the one with that responsibility. He's the one representing Danny's parents."

Derek looks visibly torn for several moments, no doubt overwhelmed by the gears turning in his head. While the sexual orientation doesn't seem like a big deal to the case, it could obviously backfire if the Mahealanis decide to testify and are thrown to the wolves because of withheld information. It's at these times that Stiles relishes his job of kiss and tell, because at least he can use his professional integrity as a defense. 

"Derek?" Scott asks, drawing his attention.

"Give us a minute," Derek says, standing and moving to join Jackson on the bed. He puts a comforting hand on the boys' shoulder, but the movement is stilted and awkward. Stiles detects a discomfort with physical affection in that aspect but makes no remark of it, instead following Scott and Erica outside.

Scott's phone buzzes suddenly, and he takes the call with a firm "McCall" before stepping away and leaving Stiles with Erica. Neither says anything for several moments, the tension hanging in front of their faces.

Stiles is halfway through thinking of something to say when Erica slams her forearm into his clavicle and his back connects with the wall. He makes a very undignified whimper, eyes blowing wide at the unexpected attack. Erica breathes into his face, face so close that it forces eye contact.

"What are you doing?!" Stiles wheezes, hands scrabbling uselessly against her grip. He's on his toes, trying to get a grip on the floor to keep himself from being hung by his neck.

"What am I doing?! What are you doing?!" Erica hisses into his face, saliva flicking off her tongue with each vowel. 

"Currently being asphyxiated by a very intimidating cop," he admits, hoarse. She lets up her pressure minutely and Stiles drags air with greed.

"Inside!" she snaps, "Were you trying to make us look like children? You can't just blindside us like that!" Erica growls in upset, gritting her teeth together. This seems to calm her down, because she lets him out of the choke hold and steps back, watching him huff and puff. "How long did it take for you to realize Danny was gay?"

Stiles sighs, rubbing his temples and wondering why he's subjected himself to this. "I don't know, within a few minutes." Erica moves to rush him again and he scrambles backwards, hands braced in front of him in defense. "I've been trained to pick up on these things! I can't help it!"

Erica backs down once more, fixing him with  a deathly intense glare.

"What else did you figure out?" She breathes reluctantly, nostrils flaring. Stiles swallows to calm himself.

"Jackson said Danny had a rough childhood," He recants, watching her recognition, "Well, it was a little more than that. He was obviously subjected to some form of abuse that really broke him. I'm not completely sure what kind, but it's probably sexual."

"Obviously?" Erica repeats, not following.

Stiles groans, gripping his hair irritably. "The paintings," he says. "I once led a study at Harvard where we had a group of abuse survivors paint or draw for several days during specific parts of their therapies. The content of the art and the way they were drawn showed a lot about their maker. Art is one of the best ways to get into someone's head."

Erica ponders this thought momentarily, "So we should see if we can't take those with us?"

"I'd like to take a better look at them," Stiles admits. "I don't know if it will help with the case, but it could tell us something about the first victim and why he was the stresser."

"Fine," she concedes, just as Scott returns from his phone call, "We'll take them back with us."

"Take what back with us?" Scott asks innocently.

"The paintings. Stiles says they're important," Erica repeats bleakly. "What was the call about?"

"Isaac just got notice. Malia and Paige's bodies are both here at the lab in Rockland county, both autopsies are finished but they're going to be closing up for the night pretty soon. We can go look at them tomorrow morning," Scott explains, looking pointedly at Erica. Stiles is lost in translation, confused by their silent conversation. 

"So we go home and drive back down tomorrow?" Stiles asks hesitantly.

Scott frowns, "It makes more sense to stay down here overnight so we can get there first thing in the morning. I just have to call to get it cleared with the judge to keep you out here overnight, but it shouldn't be too much trouble." He walks off again with his phone, presumably to call the judge.

Stiles scowls after him. "Is this a thing he does often? Walk away to take a call?"

"He likes to think he's Bond. Just give him his moment," Erica says tiredly, leaning back against the wall. " If we have to share a bed, I call dibs on sleeping with McCall. I'm not getting anywhere near you or your angry lawyer." She shivers unpleasantly.

"He's not _my_ anything, Erica. And I don't want to sleep with him either!"

It's really the perfect moment for Derek to step out of the room.

Of course that's what happens.

"You don't want to sleep with who?" he asks, eyebrows going all judgy. 

"Sigmund Freud, obviously," Stiles divulges, silently judging himself for the first name that comes to his mind. He's embarrassed himself, he can't really blame Derek for being skeptical. "Where are we staying?" 

"Probably the hotel off of Edgelawn and 32nd."

Scott comes back, breathing heavy and grinning. He so enjoys being the one with the cell phone. 

"Isaac booked a room for us!"

Erica frowns, " _A_ room? As in singular?"

"Yeah, it was all they had left. They're two beds though!" Scott says.

It takes almost a millisecond for Erica to grin in Stiles's direction, a glint flickering dangerously in her eye.

Isaac must be secretly plotting against them, Stiles thinks, because this feels really personal.

He doesn't even have a chance to protest before they're retrieving Danny's paintings, bidding Jackson a kind goodbye, and dragging Stiles to the curb where their SUV is still illegally parked.

Stiles silently wishes they'd just leave him there. He's not prepared for what's to come. 

Not at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sterek bedsharing? Pillow talk? More angst and more revelation about Stiles' sentence?  
> More to come.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Revelations about Stiles' past, Danny's childhood, and Derek's present.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the extreme wait, but I just graduated high school on the 20th so hopefully my schedule will be a little less hectic now that I'm finished with school until august! Thanks for being patient! I had to cut this chapter in half, because it was getting WAY too long.
> 
> Also, a lovely commenter reminded me that I should tell you the ages of the characters at this point in time, as it could be relevant.  
> As of now, Derek is 41 and Stiles is 36. Everyone else is in their mid to late 30's, besides Isaac who is around 27.

When Stiles agreed to assist on this case, it's safe to say that being handcuffed to the headboard of a bed in a shady New York City hotel room (next to steamy attorney at law Derek Hale) was not what he had been expecting. 

The worst part of it all is that the connotation isn't even sexual.

"Kinky," Stiles comments as Erica cuffs him to a rail in the headboard almost the moment they walk through the door. The familiar feeling of that ring of cold metal brings him directly back to prison, and it's almost as if he'd never been out of them at all. He'd only had a fraction of a day of restraint disguised as freedom and he'd already taken it for granted. 

"Can't have you giving us the slip while we're not here," Erica sing-songs, grinning a bit manically. The look in her eyes says enough about how much she's really enjoying this. She accentuates her words with a toss of blonde curls over her shoulder and a pursing of cherry red lips. Looking thoughtful, she begins saying something else, but Stiles tunes her out rather quickly and levels the handcuffs with a tired gaze.

He puts forth a short huff and once again tests the give of the handcuffs and watches, put-upon, as the chains rattle unpleasantly against the wood and the cuff presses a temporary bracelet into the skin of his wrist. 

It occurs to Stiles belatedly that he's a different person while in handcuffs, but then again, who wouldn't be? It's truly disgusting how intensely self-degradation and shackles go hand in hand, Stiles thinks, because he cannot do one without the other. If he's willing to go high school english class on the situation, the handcuffs are a metaphor for social ostracization and imprisonment all in one. He's not willing, though, so he quietly tunes back into the conversation.

The squeak of pipes and a sudden output of running water tells him that he's missed the dialogue altogether. 

Erica has abandoned him for a shower, Scott is off probably giving out his money to street kids, and Derek is-

Derek is looking straight at him.

"Oh my god-" Stiles squeaks, scrambling sideways in surprise and ending up clearing the bedside table of all its contents while simultaneously landing himself half on the floor and half on the bed, supported by only the metal digging sharply into his right wrist. The lamp clatters loudly to the floor after him, darkening the room instantly as the momentum pulls the plug out of the wall. 

"Must you do that?" Stiles groans loudly, but doesn't get up right away. The room is a quiet, dark thing for a short pause before Derek is shuffling over the bed and leaning down to look at him, that sexy, amused smirk pulling his lips off center. Stiles thins his eyes in a heatless glare, shifting his hand awkwardly in an attempt to lift himself by the cuff around his wrist.

"Do what?" Derek asks, taking in the mess on the floor. 

"Sneak up on me!" Stiles accuses, scrabbling uselessly on the carpet until Derek takes pity on him and gets up off the bed to help him untangle himself.

"I had been sitting there for ten minutes already," Derek comments briefly, offering Stiles a hand. 

Stiles watches him a moment in skepticism, but ends up gingerly taking his hand.

As it turns out, the grumpy lawyer is much stronger than your average business man. Derek pulls him easily upwards to a stand, and Stiles' feet find purchase on the floor after a short moment of flailing. The cuff pulls him backwards against the force though, and a supportive hand wraps around his waist to keep him from tumbling back to the floor. Derek hauls him close, so close that Stiles reflexively puts a hand against his chest to brace for impact. 

"Right," Stiles whispers breathily.

It's easily the most intimate situation he's found himself in in the last seven years (though he doesn't have much to choose from).

Their comparatively loud breathing is the only sound filling the room. Noses hovering within touching distance of each other, lips, parted, and just inches apart, breathing the same air in tantalizingly heavy tension. Derek seems to realize the closeness too late, and Stiles can hear the audible intake of surprise as he sucks inwards, breath caught in his lungs with bewilderment. Stiles feels the heat of Derek's chest underneath his palm and slowly, deliberately curls his fingers into the fabric of his shirt in a weak effort to keep the space between them limited.

What really has Stiles' attention though is the intense, unreadable gaze in Derek's eyes that has him swimming in green and blue and looking for the surface to break. 

It doesn't.

Derek seems to be frozen in time, leaving Stiles in a similar position as he searches the stoic man's face for some sort of expression. Interest, disgust, anything.

He remains frustratingly blank.

The heat coming off of Derek's face leads Stiles to think that a frankly gorgeous blush is blooming across his cheekbones; he's just too close to see it.

Ever so slowly, Derek comes back to life, a shaky output of breath and a tightening of the arm wrapped around Stiles' waist that has Stiles thinking _here it comes._

He's so sure of the body language, the connotations, that he leans up just that fraction of an inch in expectation of the kiss, gaze eyelid-heavy and staring greedily into Derek's own hooded eyes.

Stiles is only aware of Derek's apparent disinterest when the man unceremoniously drops his hand from Stiles' hip and takes an immediate, stiff step backwards.

Stiles, on the other hand, has to quickly steady himself with a hand on the headboard, chain rattling impossibly loud against the wood and mind still reeling in the heat of it all. 

As if nothing had even occurred in those agonizing last moments, Derek bends down neutrally to pick up and replace the fallen lamp on the bedside table, plugging in the cord and filling the room with light once more. Almost on autopilot, Stiles gathers up what he can reach of the stack of papers from the carpet and begins shuffling them together, but not without watching Derek do the same out of the corner of his eye. 

The man shows absolutely no outward signs of the intense attraction Stiles is still currently feeling. Instead of kissing him, Derek is organizing Scott's case files and righting them on the table without so much as a glance in his direction. Surely Stiles didn't imagine it, he thinks, as he adds his stack to Derek's. 

He sits down mechanically because that's probably what he should be doing, mind becoming restless as he watches Derek circle the other side of the bed and slip back into his place on the left end, pulling his computer back into his lap.

Stiles starts to doubt himself five minutes later when Derek still hasn't looked up from his screen.

On one hand, it has been a frighteningly long time since Stiles has been intimate with anyone, much less a devastatingly handsome guy like Derek, so maybe it is plausible that Stiles was projecting his own intentions onto the guy? Maybe the universal body language of _i'm going to ravish you_ has changed since Stiles was incarcerated and now his extensive knowledge on the unspoken language is outdated? That explanation sounds flimsy, even to his ears. 

Looking at Derek though, there's no indication that he's even a little sexually flustered. Even so, Stiles can see the ruffle of fabric in the center of Derek's chest where his fingers were clenched no more than five minutes before. The only other remnant of the lost moment is a faint pink tinge at the base of Derek's neck, but even that could be a trick of the light.

It occurs to Stiles that he doesn't even know if the guy's gay. At least not for certain.

He's had the read on him for a while now, but even his own interpretation can be (though not often) a bit off-center.

There's really only one way to find out for sure, and you have to give a little to get a little, Stiles thinks determinedly. 

"I have an addiction to gambling," Stiles suddenly blurts out, keeping his eyes directly ahead of him on a rather unattractive hotel painting of an iris until he can feel Derek's attention shift to him. The man turns his head to study Stiles, mouth slightly open and eyebrows lifted in surprise.

"What?" 

"You know those few minor compulsive behaviors I mentioned in the car," Stiles says, voice quickening. "Well one of them is gambling." He wasn't expecting to just open the floodgates on the poor guy, but Stiles finds that since he's opened them a crack he might as well let the water out. "It's extremely embarrassing but I literally can't stop. Doesn't matter if I'm rich or completely broke or high or depressed, I will gamble myself and anyone I know out of their house if it gets really bad."

"Stiles, I'm not really-"

"I rationalize my behavior when I know it's wrong because it's the most amazing thrill in the world, even if it is an impulse-control disorder! How can I even look my patients in the eye and tell them to change when I can't even quit myself?" Stiles rambles, mind running faster and faster and blurring the reality in front of him. How can he be such a hypocrite and not even feel a little remorse about it? Maybe it's a side effect of the Narcissistic personality disorder? He's probably subtype apathetic-

"Stiles!" Derek says loudly, silencing the room completely, save for the steady stream of water from the bathroom.

Stiles blinks, "What?"

Derek is quiet for a brief moment, holding Stiles’ gaze for several intense seconds before he speaks, carefully as if approaching a wild animal. The comparison is laughable, but fair.

“Is that the reason you’re in prison?” He asks slowly, his grip on his laptop tightening and loosening in a rhythmic cycle of apprehension. Stiles watches him thoughtfully, gauging his reaction.

The question is calculating, and Stiles isn’t sure if Derek’s really prepared to hear the whole story. Or if he’s ready to tell it.

“Indirectly,” Stiles admits briefly, deciding to steel himself from scrutiny as the coward he knows he is. Eight years in prison have not made him any less of one, he ashamedly realizes, and he will probably be this way until he dies (probably also in prison).

Derek, as a lawyer, must know what his sentence is, but perhaps isn’t completely aware of the circumstances of his arrest. He also should know that the correct sentence for someone with a gambling addiction is not 25-to-life, but is actually nothing unless the gambling is illegal or under false pretenses.

Stiles sighs, running a hand through his hair and pulling lightly at a few of the strands at his hairline to keep him grounded. He can’t go off the rails here; It’s frankly not an option.

“Why are you telling me this?” Derek asks next, having set down his work in order to fully face him. He looks wary, as if expecting something to go down. He obviously has great intuition.

“Giving you some leverage over me so you can trust that I won’t tell everyone and their brother that you are, in fact, very gay and so far into the closet you might as well be the back wall.”

Derek looks momentarily stricken by horror, eyes blown animatedly wide with unadulterated fear. Stiles is surprised by the staggering amount of embarrassment in his expression, wondering if it really was such a good idea to pry this out of him. 

He was right, then, about the homosexuality.

But if it didn’t happen now, Stiles is sure that it would have come up in front of a crowd of skeptical cops out looking for blood. Guilt is not a feeling Stiles is very familiar with, but he supposes that the feeling of lead in his stomach is startlingly close to it.

“How did you…?” Derek whispers, cheeks blooming red with blush before he lunges suddenly at Stiles with defensive force.

Stiles barely has enough time to put his hands in front of him before Derek aborts his attack, instead taking the flight approach and leaping off the bed, only to start pacing frantically. Stiles can see the gears turning in his head.

“I’m very good at reading people,” Stiles comments bleakly, watching the man spiral into a whirlwind of distress.

It doesn’t feel nearly as satisfying as he thought it would.

“You-You, what do you want? Money? Help to escape?” Derek stammers, meeting Stiles’ gaze with a wild stare. His body language indicates that he wouldn’t be above giving Stiles all the cash on his person and walking him right out the front door. 

A good thought to remember if this ordeal goes south, but not exactly what he's craving at the moment. 

The self-hatred is unbelievably thick in the air and it sends Stiles back to a place he'd been once in high school, and he can’t image living there into adulthood.

“I don’t want anything, Derek. Except for you to calm down,” Stiles coaxes gently, eyes tracking the man’s frantic paces. “I’m not going to tell anyone. Your sexuality isn’t anyone’s business.”

“Except yours, right?”

Ouch.

That's fair.

Stiles tries to stand, hampered by the handcuffs linking him to the bed. He settles for just leaning forward on his knees. “I’m only mentioning it now because I don’t want it to come up in the case without you being ready for it, because it will,” Stiles admits, just as Derek finally stops pacing.

“And how could you know that?” Derek hisses skeptically, eyebrows pulled tightly together. He nervously thrums his fingers against his thigh, which seems to calm down his increased heart rate and quickened breath.

Stiles sighs, quieting suddenly and waiting until he can catch Derek’s gaze before patting the end of the bed. Surprisingly, the lawyer obeys the request and sits down on the end of Stiles’ side of the bed. Close enough to touch.

Stiles refrains, he's (a little) better than that.

“I won’t know for sure until we get deeper into this case, but I don’t think Danny’s homosexuality was a happy accident,” Stiles admits, watching in reverent silence as Derek even flinches at the definitive word.

This is much deeper than Stiles thought.

“Derek, listen,” he tries, ducking forward to catch Derek’s downturned gaze. The man’s eyes flick slowly over to Stiles’ face, but he doesn’t turn his own face up. “I think you need to talk about this," he insists, "It doesn't have to be with me, but it's something you should really consider."

Derek looks back down at his hands, which are folded neatly in his lap.

“But I’d rather have you tell me about this… situation, than have to pry it out of you,” Stiles says carefully, his own hands twitching in his lap, aching to comfort the man.

The room is quiet for a long time, gears visibly turning in Derek's mind.

In the mean time, the moment is lost in an unlocking click and a faint squeak of door hinges which welcomes Erica back into the room in a fog of steam. Clad only in a bath towel clinched tightly around her chest, she pauses, bare feet spread shoulder-width apart as she takes in the sight of the two men. She quirks an eyebrow, remaining uncharacteristically quiet even as she steps into motion with a puff of air from her lungs.

"You're not trying to psychoanalyze the good lawyer, are you Stiles?" Erica says, reaching both hands to tie her damp hair into a topknot. Derek stiffens at the comment, removing himself from Stiles' personal space in order to reclaim his place on his end of the bed.

 Stiles, only a little upset at Erica for ruining the carefully crafted atmosphere Stiles had been manipulating, scoffs. "Psychoanalysis is outdated and it's nothing more than a pseudoscience-"

"Right," Erica deflects, wringing out her damp hair and dripping water onto the hotel's cheap carpet. The movement has her towel shifting lower on her frame, exposing a sliver more of chest. Stiles glances casually at Derek's blank expression and obvious disinterest in the female form, wondering how he thought the man could be straight in the first place. 

Eight prison years really took a number on his radar for these sorts of things.

Erica returns to the bathroom briefly to change back into her original clothes, emerging just as Scott returns from his food run with two pizza boxes precariously balanced in one hand.

Stiles' mouth waters at the mere idea of greasy food.

 

Twenty minutes later Stiles has overcome a serious case of overeating and has since stopped defending his eating choices with the excuse of _freedom pizza._ It is also around this time that Scott has somehow brought the conversation full circle: from meager prison food, back to the case at hand. Stiles is seriously bummed at his childhood friend's obvious need to harsh his good vibes. 

"So what's the story with those?" Scott asks, and Stiles has to look up to locate the source of his question. Past Scott's directory index finger, layered one over the other on the far nightstand are Danny Mahealani's paintings.

"What do you mean?" Erica asks, mouth still full (she'd paced herself so well that eventually all three men had lost their appetite and left her with an entire half of a pizza to herself). 

"Why'd we take them? They probably aren't relevant to the case..." Scott shrugs innocently. Erica matches him with an equally dismissive shake of the shoulders, looking pointedly to Stiles.

"You didn't hire me to determine what is or isn't related to the case, Scott," Stiles says irritably from his place on the bed; the metal bracelet digging relentlessly into the meat of his sore wrists. It had become something of a punch line for the people in the room without a record, his apparent discomfort with being handcuffed, that is. At first, the byproduct of fear that came with that familiar sting of chilled metal could be ignored, covered by clever wit and careful words. He shrugged it off in the beginning, because he shouldn't be such a child about it.

That feeling shouldn't scare him with this intensity.

And yet...

On the outside, Stiles' only ailment is skin rubbed raw by handcuffs. And on the inside, his discomfort is becoming unbearable, and it's starting to show, he thinks, with short temper and irritability. 

"Why did you hire him at all?" Derek asks bleakly, still bitter and still sliding deeper into the comforter on his side of the hotel bed.

Stiles grits his teeth to quell an uprising of well-studied, medically-accurate, derogatory remarks about the lot of them that he could so easily snap out.  

"You hired me to figure these people out," Stiles breathes, calming himself. He doesn't want to make any rash decisions that will send him back to Sing Sing. "And I think I've figured Mr. Mahealani out," he admits, sitting back against the headboard and tipping the crown of his head back until it hits the wood with a quiet _thunk._ He studies the stucco ceiling with minor interest, wondering why the hotel couldn't shell out a couple hundred to get it re-leveled because the 1980's popcorn look is kind of tacky nowadays.

It's all irrelevant though, Stiles supposes.

Who even cares.

"You've never met the guy, there's no way you could possibly know him better than Jackson Whittemore, who's known him for years," Derek claims, a natural skeptic, as he clicks away on his keyboard. He's probably typing out this entire conversation in a Word outline or something equally as normal for a control freak like Derek.

Stiles looks at the pair of agents, who nod agreeably. Apparently case notes and human interviews are infallible.

"Look," he says tiredly, "If you'd hand me the paintings, I can show you what I see and maybe shed some light on the first victims' mentality."

Scott concedes, standing and gathering the canvas' up in his arms before setting them onto Stiles' outstretched legs, across his thighs. The man sits close enough to see, Erica crowding in behind him to get a look at them as well. Derek eventually puts his computer away in favor of paying attention.

FIrst, Stiles glances up at the three of them, studying their curious faces as they gaze down at their first painting: the full-body portrait of a man.

Stiles watches them quietly as he speaks more softly, more calmly. This is his element.

"What do you see?" 

"A man," Erica drawls lazily, rebelling against the serious atmosphere with satire. Stiles refuses to rise to her challenge.

He really wants them to understand this.

"Right, what else?" he asks, and the woman's face smoothes out ever so slowly.

"Sadness," Scott comments, sympathetic. His hands trace the painted man's helpless face.

Derek, easily the most serious of them all, answers then, surprising Stiles with the amount of silent reverence in his tone. "Big hands," he says quietly.

Stiles nods until Derek lifts his gaze to meet his eyes, "They're anatomically too large, which leads me to think that Danny had a fixation on other people's hands, or the connotation that goes with them..."

"Touching," Derek finishes, and Stiles watches the other members of the room fall into eventual understanding.

"Right," he agrees, "And I'm lead to believe that this touching is not sexual or friendly from the way he holds himself. Notice how he's touching himself in a defensive, withdrawn way. This isn't a sensual painting, which it could superficially pass as. There is something deeply upsetting about his body language..."

Stiles shuffles the painting to the bottom of the stack, letting the second canvas face the ceiling.

The woman in the portrait is bodily naked, breasts disproportionately too small and lips too big. Her own hand caresses her cheek in a gentle gesture, index finger resting beside one of two exaggeratedly bold brows. Her opposing hand is clutched tightly against the wrist of this arm, so tightly that even the pinpricks of her nails are painted into the skin.

When Stiles looks up at his audience, he sees Scott blush at the obviousness of the female form, whereas Derek and Erica seem generally unaffected.

"Her breasts are... too small? And she doesn't really have a very expressive face," Erica comments, tipping her head ever so slightly and tucking a few stray strands of hair behind her ear.

Stiles lets out an agreeable hum, "Danny focused again more on her hands than any other part of her. He doesn't seem to be particularly detailed in the female form, indicating that he has little knowledge of it, or more likely, he cares less for those details of her femininity-"

"This was how you knew he was gay?" Erica asks suddenly, meeting Stiles' gaze with sudden clarity. Stiles can feel Derek stiffen beside him, but he just nods quietly.

"Among other things," he admits, looking down at the third and final painting as he brings it to the surface, shuffling the women underneath the stack.

"This is a woman's hand," Stiles comments, motioning to the fingers gripped unnaturally tight into the face of the painted boy. It's a headshot, intensely accurate. One hand digs into his cheek violently, literally pulling the skin off of his bones in a similar way to that of a rotting corpse. Another hand rests gently in his hair, his own.

Scott frowns, "How can you be sure?"

"Danny spent a long time making sure his hands were distinct. This one is a different size that the other, more thin and frail. The manicured nails were another clue," Stiles explains softly, eyes lingering on the boy's helpless expression.

"That's a stereotype," Derek mentions after a moment of thought.

"It is, but I don't think Danny was molding this hand after just some random, run of the mill woman. His art is too specific for coincidence."

The room drifts into reverent silence.

After some time, Stiles turns the paintings over in respect and looks up to find the rest of the room watching him carefully, for once. 

"You think the woman in the second painting... molested Danny Mahealani as a child?" Scott asks, looking nauseous despite himself.

Stiles shakes his head after a moment of thought, "Not exactly. But the woman in the painting is probably a reflection of the woman who violated him. They probably have very similar characteristics...the likelihood of Danny remembering an exact image of this woman decreases with time, and it had to have been at least ten years since..." he pauses. Saying the words outright should be an easy, detached commentary, but this was the part Stiles felt most difficult to deal with when it came to his own patients, his own friends. After every medically distant class he'd taken, after every degree, the actuality of such traumas are still troubling. Stiles shakes his head for clarity, blinking rapidly to refocus on the task at hand.

He briefly meets Scott and Erica's eyes, his gaze catching on Derek. The look of thoughtful contemplation on the man's face surprises Stiles, who eventually heaves a pointed cough and looks back down to the paintings. "These are probably her hands, at least," he adds.

Stiles sighs, tracing the detail in the portrait and feeling the emotion through the canvas.

"Do you think this experience had anything to do with Danny's sexuality?"

Stiles' head jerks upwards to face Derek, an incredulous look gracing his face as he studies the lawyer.

With eyebrows pinched together in concentration and a tightness to his lips, Derek is obviously not asking for his usual reason of trying to contradict everything Stiles says aloud. Genuine concern sparkles in the man's ethereal eyes, enough so that Stiles cannot look away and scoff at the ridiculousness of what the question implies. Because Derek is intensely serious about this.

That's worrying in itself.

"No, not likely," Stiles explains slowly, ignoring the FBI agents in the room for once and imagining a room of complete acceptance, trying to acclimate that sense of gentleness into his answer. "Homosexuality is not a symptom of child molestation... or adult molestation, for that matter. It's not a disease or something that can be treated with drugs or therapy... it's just a sexual orientation. Nothing can or will change that."

"So if someone came to your practice in the past, wanting to be changed in that way... you wouldn't try to alter their orientation?" Derek asks, expression carefully blank save only for a shininess to his eyes.

Stiles smiles softly, watching as the man's eyes trace the curve of his lips, "That'd be pretty hypocritical of me."

Derek frowns momentarily before the statement fully registers, eyes widening in surprise. A quick swell of amusement bubbles up in Stiles' chest in response and he gives the lawyer a smart quirk of his lips, watching his face go beet red.

Scott coughs uncomfortably, clearing his throat for a moment too long as he stands. He gathers up the three paintings and replaces them on a table, pointedly out of Stiles' reach. "I've add this information to the case file tomorrow morning. It's getting late," he announces, shucking off his slacks and shoes while simultaneously loosening his tie and draping his suitcoat onto the chair set up in the opposing corner of the room. 

It's something that should be more stilted and awkward, Stiles thinks, taking off the majority of your clothes with an audience. It's obvious that Erica and Scott have been through this drill before, but Derek is looking a little worse for wear as he unties his own tie and abandoning his button up ever so slowly. It's tantalizing, right up until Stiles gets a glimpse of a surprisingly toned torso and he feels himself getting hot in his own oversized, borrowed clothing.

With a deep, calming breath, Stiles settles back into the bed, opting to adorn a very uncomfortable pair of jeans and an itchy T-shirt to sleep- and not for his own sake. Erica watches him curiously as she settles into the opposite bed in only her button-up and undergarments, but Stiles doesn't defend himself in front of her critical gaze.

Perhaps Derek knows Stiles is withholding undressing for his sake, but he ignores it just as Stiles expected he would. 

Stiles may be an asshole, but he isn't going to make this unfavorable situation any more uncomfortable for the poor man.

He lifts the comforter up so the both of them can slide in, just as Scott flicks off the lights and promptly passes out on his mattress.

Stiles turns his back on Derek's prone form, feeling the blood rushing out of his arm (still caught upright, suspended by the single handcuff). He uses his free hand to readjust his chained wrist, trying to angle it in a way that won't cut off his circulation when he eventually falls asleep but what hope is there really. He's not going to catch a wink of sleep like this, worrying that he might accidentally grope Derek in his sleep or something equally as embarrassing and/or traumatizing for the both of them.

After several minutes of awkward shuffling from Derek's side, Stiles holds his breath, trying to sum up the energy to say something. It's another few minutes of restlessness before he does.

"I can sleep on the floor instead, you can just ask Scott to handcuff me to the air conditioning unit or something-" Stiles whispers quickly.

Derek groans irritably into his pillow, but doesn't respond otherwise.

"Derek, I'm serious! I'm not going to feel you up in your sleep, but if you're really this uncomfortable then-"

"Stiles."

"...Yes?"

"It's alright. Just shut up," Derek mumbles into his pillow, and Stiles glances over his own shoulder to finally see the man's shoulders relax. 

It takes a while, but eventually Stiles can settle too. He can almost imagine a small smile gracing Derek's lips as he said the quiet words, but perhaps Stiles is projecting. His worry is far from over though.

Sighing quietly, Stiles drops his free hand, sandwiching it between his cheek and a stiff pillow while he watches with drooping eyes as the bright red, block numbers of the digital clock tick upwards from :00 to :59 and back again. 

Stiles has watched the numbers shuffle with several leading numbers before he eventually loses the battle around 4:00am. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> You read, you might as well comment?
> 
>  
> 
> **ATTENTION**  
>  So someone stole one of my works off of here from another account that I had and put it up on this piece of shit site [Ebook tree](http://www.ebooks-tree.com/) for whatever reason. I encourage any of my readers who also post fiction to look for your stories on there as well. My fic wasn't even half way finished and it was still taken, so really anything is fair game. Just a heads up for you lovelies.  
> And if anyone takes this story I swear heads. will. roll.


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